


The Red Lady of the Lake

by grelleswife



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arthurian, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Female Pronouns for Grell Sutcliff, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Knights - Freeform, Lady of the Lake!Grelle, Magic, Swords, Trans Female Character, knight!Bard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24728737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grelleswife/pseuds/grelleswife
Summary: Brave knight Sir Bardroy must obtain an enchanted sword from the Red Lady of the Lake for his young prince. Will the fae blacksmith deem him worthy?
Relationships: Baldroy/Grell Sutcliff
Kudos: 14





	The Red Lady of the Lake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShyWhovian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyWhovian/gifts).



> This is a belated birthday gift for my love; I hope that you like it, dear!
> 
> Of course, the "Lady of the Lake" myth is based (very, very) loosely on Arthurian legend. I was also inspired by a Tumblr post which speculated that the Lady might have been a blacksmith. Knowing how Grelle loves to tinker with her scythe, I think she would adore working as a magical smith!

“Easy, girl.”

Bard tugged on the reins, bringing his roan mare to a halt. Strider snorted and let out a faint whinny, and her nostrils flared as she pawed the ground with her hoof.

Bard gave her an encouraging pat on the neck. Her coat was several shades darker, damp with sweat. Poor thing. He hated having to ride her this hard.

“Guess yer tired as me. Probably moreso, seein’ as you had ter lug around a knight an’ his armor all day.”

He reminded himself to give her one of the carrots stowed away in his travel bag later that evening.

“I know it ain’t easy, but we have ter to this…for the young prince.”

Bard dismounted, yanked off his helmet, and swore under his breath while trying to work the stiffness out of his muscles. He’d ridden almost nonstop for most of the day, and being in the saddle that long made a fellow damn sore.

“So this is it, eh? The Red Lady’s lake.”

The songs and legends often spoke of its beauty, but they’d failed to do it justice. The body of water was surrounded on all sides by dense forest. The trees’ vibrant green leaves shone like pieces of stained glass in the setting sun’s rays, and seemed to whisper some delightful secret amongst themselves when the wind rustled their branches. The lake’s surface was so perfectly smooth that it acted like a vast mirror, drawing the sunset’s fiery golds and rosy pinks into its depths. And the waters themselves…

Serene, perfect blue. Like the sapphire ring the young prince wore on his thumb. Bard wanted a closer look.

Such a deep, rich blue. Did it have an end? The lake might be as infinite as the sky it reflected. If he took the plunge and let himself be engulfed by its tranquility, how long would he fall before he found stars? Maybe years…or forever…

A loud, disapproving neigh shattered the silence, and the knight almost toppled backwards in surprise.

“The hell did yer do that for?!” Bard snapped. He turned around and glared at his horse. Strider was normally a dependable, even-tempered mare, not easily spooked.

Then, the knight looked down. He was standing up to his knees in water. When had he started wading into the lake? To Bard’s alarm, the previously still waters lapped at his legs, like treacherous hands trying to drag him in deeper.

He cursed and grabbed Strider’s bridle. “Give me a hand, gal?”

The mare responded with an exasperated snort, but moved back towards the shore, with Bard tenaciously hanging on to her bridle and dragging his legs forward one arduous step at a time. It was hard going; a strong current came out of nowhere to surge against him. But he refused to yield.

With one last cry of determination, he stepped onto dry land, and the pull on his mind and body abruptly retreated.

Though the air was mild and balmy, Bard shuddered. He shouldn’t have let his guard down. Places inhabited by the fey were tricky; they made your senses betray you. A man might look like a bear. The patter of rain could sound like an advancing army. You didn’t dare eat or drink anything in these spots, or mortal food would be ruined for you, turning to dust and ash in your mouth until you starved.

Was that a sleek, dark head bobbing up out of the water? Bard blinked and squinted. No…nothing there. At least, he hoped not.

“Let’s set up camp, girl. We could both use the rest,” he said, leading Strider to an open space near the edge of the woods and a comfortable distance from the lake.

After saving his arse from whatever enchantment had gotten ahold of him, the mare deserved two carrots.

* * *

Grelle was still toiling in her forge when Ran Mao approached her.

“What is it, darling?” she asked distractedly. The Smith was engrossed in hammering out a sword from cherry-red elven steel, and she would have given most people a thorough tongue-lashing if they barged in on her like this. However, Ran Mao wasn’t most people. She didn’t bother with idle chitchat, and she only spoke when she had good reason to. One word from Ran Mao was worth twenty from her loquacious sisters.

“Company,” the naiad said.

Grelle continued her work, but the rise and fall of her hammer slowed. “Oh? Anything interesting?”

“A knight. Broke free from the spell.”

The Smith’s hammer froze in midair, and her head whipped around as she stared at Ran Mao. “ _Really_?”

Due to various enchantments, few mortal travelers could resist the lake’s pull. That was how the lakefolk weeded out callow, feeble-willed supplicants.

“Any inkling of why he came here?”

Ran Mao just shrugged. “Not sure. Went back to the woods. Maybe he’ll try to summon you tomorrow.”

Ooo! A visitor with a wish to grant. Usually, those greedy humans made petty, boring requests (and were punished accordingly), but this could prove entertaining.

“Is he handsome?”

Ran Mao pursed her lips. “Maybe? Blond. Broad chest.” She rubbed the side of her face. “Stubble.”

What the hell did she mean, ‘maybe’? Then again, Ran Mao made no secret of her preference for women; men generally failed to impress her. But a blond, muscle-bound knight…Grelle liked the sound of that.

“My, my, my. He could be fun. I’ll keep an eye out for his rose,” the Smith tittered.

Ran Mao bowed from the waist up and swam away, leaving Grelle to her work.

* * *

The Smith hadn’t always been fey. Once upon a time, in a past so distant that she herself could no longer remember, she’d been a mortal woman, though others did not acknowledge her as such. Pain and loneliness had choked her like vicious weeds, suffocating any frail flowers of joy and hope that tried to take root. She endured for twenty-seven years, until she could endure no longer. Under cover of darkness, she’d slipped out of her parents’ house (no one had ever asked for her hand in marriage) and trekked through the woods to a lake deep enough to drown herself in. She’d filled her pockets with stones and waded in as far as she could, step by despairing step, the water closing over her head like the curtain that signifies the final act.

It was not an ending, however, but a beginning. Though the fey could be cruel and capricious, they were not constrained by the small-mindedness of humans, and they saw her for who she was. The naiads had taken pity on her and presented the woman with a choice: Die as a human, or live among them as one of the fey. She’d chosen the latter, on the condition that they give her a body that better reflected her true self. In addition to a new form, the woman also received a new name…Grelle.

Grelle was descended from a long line of blacksmiths. After discovering that her magic could make fire burn underwater, she’d wasted no time in setting up a forge. Unlike her soot-stained father, who hammered out plows and horseshoes, Grelle had loftier aspirations. An elvish smith taught her how to make fine sculptures, armor, and, most importantly of all, swords. She had an affinity for these weapons, and each one that emerged from her forge was more beautiful and deadly than the last. Grelle’s craftsmanship was without equal. Over the centuries, tales spread among humans and fey alike about the ravishing Red Lady of the Lake and her enchanted swords, which slew monsters, toppled tyrants from their thrones, and tore sunlight to ribbons.

But there was one sword that outshone them all. A weapon that, in the hands of its rightful master, would render them invincible. She named it Regere, for it had been prophesied that the person who wielded it would usher in the rule of a great king.

Brash mortals came to the lake prepared to barter for one of her swords, most commonly for _the_ sword. Few succeeded. The Smith didn’t give her beloved weapons to any common lout who passed by; they were as dear to her as her own children would have been, if she’d had any.

If it was Regere this knight sought, he’d have to fight for it.

* * *

Bard groggily opened his eyes, stretching his arms above his head as he oriented himself to his surroundings. Oh, yeah…Magic lake. Enchanted sword. Red Lady. “Th’ hell did I get myself into?” he mumbled. Bard opened the tent flap apprehensively. Strange things could happen in these spots under cover of darkness, and he was seized by an irrational fear that some harm had befallen Strider. What the blazes would he do if she’d been turned into a toad, or worse? Bard let out a sigh of relief when he saw the mare grazing peacefully.

“Mornin’,” he called out to her. Strider let out an amicable nicker before returning to her breakfast. Speaking of…Bard was feeling right peckish himself.

He set up a small fire, squatted next to it, and prepared hot cakes in the frying pan he’d brought along. While he waited for them to turn golden brown, he recited Sebastian’s instructions to himself.

“Toss the rose in the water, say that rhyme thingummy, an’ wait fer the Lady t’ appear.” Seemed simple enough, but magic was never simple.

He quickly scarfed down his breakfast, burning his tongue in the process. His ma always used to scold him for being too impatient and not letting his food cool. Ah, well. There was no time to waste. Every day he tarried put the young prince in graver danger.

On impulse, Bard donned his armor and strapped his sword around his waist. It probably wouldn’t provide much protection against a faerie, but he’d have to make do. The knight picked up his satchel and carefully pulled out a blue silk cloth. He unfolded it, letting the red rose fall into his palm. The young prince’s advisor and sole mage, Sebastian Michaelis, had put a preservative charm on the flower, and it looked as fresh and vibrant as the day it had been plucked.

Bard twirled the stem between forefinger and thumb.

“Damn, what was the incantation, again?”

Sebastian had tested his memory at least a dozen times before his departure, but now he was drawing a blank. _Shit_.

‘The Lady is quick to take offense. If you stumble or say a word out of place, she will not come,’ the mage had warned Bard. The knight desperately wracked his brains. _Come on, Bard, **come on!** _The fate of the young prince and their entire court was riding on this; Bard couldn’t ruin things now by forgetting a few damn words. But his mind was wrapped in an impenetrable fog. He paced to and fro, trying to recall how the incantation went. He refused to fail.

It was six lines long. Sebastian had said it was three “couplets” grouped together, which meant that every two lines should rhyme…and hadn’t each couplet started with “Oh Lady?” He felt he was missing a piece, though…

“Oh…oh godly Lady? Nah…” He glared at the rose in his hands, as if it was responsible for his lapse in memory.

“Oh gabby Lady? Shit, that can’t be right…Oh… _gracious_ Lady?” He stopped dead in his tracks. That rang a bell.

“Oh gracious Lady…hear my plea…”

A triumphant grin spread across his face. He had it! It was all coming back now.

The knight strode to the lake’s edge, eager to finish this before he forgot again. He braced himself for another onslaught of magic, but the lake’s tranquil, unruffled surface did not beguile him as before.

A tad awkwardly, he tossed the rose into the water, chanting the rhyme that would summon the Lady.

_“Oh gracious Lady, hear my plea,_

_With all my heart I call to thee._

_Oh blood-red Lady, hear my cry,_

_None has more need for thee than I._

_Oh deathless Lady, lend thy blade,_

_For I shall fail without thine aid.”_

Nothing happened.

Bard swore quietly, feeling like a damn fool. He’d witnessed the lake’s power with his own eyes yesterday; would an immortal faerie blacksmith pay any mind to some mumbled words and a flower? Especially from the likes of him. After all, he wasn’t a witty courtier or lofty duke. He was just gruff, battle-worn Sir Bardroy.

Then, as if borne by a gust of wind, the rose began to move across the surface of the water until it was carried to the center of the lake, where it sank out of sight.

For several interminable minutes, there was only silence. Then, the lake started to roil and churn, like a pot boiling over the fire. Bard drew in a sharp breath when a tall, slender figure emerged from the spot where the rose had disappeared. She walked towards him _on the water_ at a stately, measured pace. When she drew nearer, Bard fell to his knees in awe, yanking off his helmet as a sign of respect.

A faerie? No, this was a goddess. Her crimson dress billowing around her like a phoenix’s wings. Her mouth redder than the seeds of the pomegranate or the berry of the holly. Her hair flowing free and catching the light of the sun like an angel’s aureole. And those eyes, those eyes that burned and bewitched him with their foxfire.

Dazzled though he was, he started to pick up finer details: Her peculiar shoes, with long, thin heels to accentuate her height. His rose, which she’d braided into her silken locks. A dainty gold necklace that encircled her throat.

He started at the sound of her voice. “You may rise, good knight.”

Shakily, Bard got to his feet.

“You came for a sword, I presume?”

“Yes, m’lady. For _the_ sword, Red—Reg—Regere.” Dammit! He was making a bigger buffoon of himself with every syllable that tripped out of his stupid mouth. At this rate, she’d turn up her nose and laugh at him.

The Lady smiled, a playful twinkle in her eye. “Ah, my dear Regere. I thought that might be the one you were after.” Her smile faded, replaced by a steely, calculating look that could have sliced his armor clean through. “It’s very precious to me, you know. The best sword to ever leave my forge. What makes you worthy of wielding it, Sir…?”

“Bardroy, my Lady.”

Bard felt sweat trickling down his back. That was the thing—he _wasn’t_ worthy. He just knew how to swing a blade around. Dealing with the fey was beyond him. Maybe Sebastian’s vision had been wrong after all.

But he couldn’t give up without even trying.

“Well…the prince I serve has need of it, y’see. His whole family was killed off by assassins when he’d barely seen his tenth year. Members of King Vincent’s inner circle set the whole thing up so they could seize the throne for themselves. Prince Astre would’ve been slaughtered along with the rest of ‘em, but the steward Tanaka managed to smuggle ‘im out of the castle. Ever since, the boy’s been in hiding, gathering followers, waiting for the right time to return and claim his birthright. Before meeting him, we were a bunch of ragtag misfits nobody else wanted, but he gave us a family, a…a purpose. An’ Prince Astre’s a rare one. A slip of a boy, but crafty as a fox and wise as a serpent. He doesn’t have a crown, but one look in his eyes and you can see he has the _heart_ of a king. I knew that the moment I met him.”

“You’d die for this boy, wouldn’t you?” the Smith interrupted him, green eyes alight with intrigue.

“I…yes, my lady. Without question. We all would. We owe our lives to the young prince.”

“I thought as much. It’s written on your face.” She placed a hand on her hip. “But you still haven’t told me why _you_ think you have a right to my blade.”

Dammit, he was rambling. Bard stumbled on.

“Er…y’see, our mage, Sebastian, was scrying the future for guidance. ‘e foretold that the young prince would ascend to the throne in his fourteenth year, but only if we carried the Red Lady’s sword, Regere, into battle.”

“Then why didn’t your prince come to me in person instead of sending one of his lackeys? Rather rude of him.”

“Um…” Bard shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “The prophecy also said that…uh…I’d be the one ter wield it.”

He closed his eyes and prepared himself for her scorn.

Instead, he was met with a thoughtful, “I see.”

The Lady considered him. “You come with quite a tale, Sir Bardroy, and I’m always willing to help a handsome man…”

_Shit_ , she thought he was handsome!

“…but I can’t trust a mage’s prophecy. They’re notoriously unreliable. You’ll have to prove your mettle to me.”

The knight straightened to his full height. “Say the word, an’ I’ll do it, my Lady.”

“Then spar with me. If you win, I’ll give you Regere with no strings attached and bid you on your way. But if _I_ win, then I’m free whatever I please with you.”

Bard gawped at the woman, who stood before him with no weapons or so much as a breastplate to protect herself.

“I can’t…that ain’t right!” he burst out.

She cocked her head to the side and raised a delicate eyebrow. “Why ever not, Sir Bardroy? When you need my sword so desperately?”

“It wouldn’t be a fair fight! I have my sword, shield, an’ armor at the ready…I can’t attack someone who’s unarmed. My Lady, I may not be one o’ those refined types who plays the lute and dances the minuet, but I have my honor as a knight.”

To his surprise, the Lady giggled and clasped her hands together. “Oh, aren’t you a darling! It’s sweet of you to worry about me.” She batted her lashes and gave him a tender smile that made the knight’s face burn.

Then, that smile turned wicked, revealing inhumanly sharp teeth behind her scarlet lips.

“There’s no need, though. You shan’t touch me.”

Before Bard had a chance to react, she reached into her voluminous sleeves and pulled out two swords, one in each hand.

“What kind of smith doesn’t know how to use her own weapons?” she purred. The Lady swung at him with a gleeful whoop. Bard leapt back, cramming his helmet back on and raising his shield above his head. He winced when her blades scored gashes across the surface.

Sir Bardroy was the most capable swordsman in Prince Astre’s retinue, but he quickly realized that he had met his match in the Lady. She was light on her feet, evading his every blow, dancing around him like a taunting breeze that he couldn’t quite catch. She was strong, cleaving his shield in half with one swipe of her blade, almost toppling him with the force of her blows. She was cunning, making an apparent misstep that gave Bard a chance to gain the upper hand, only to reveal that she’d been luring him in close enough to strike, deftly splitting his helmet in two without laying a scratch on his face.

They locked swords, each fighting to disarm the other. For a second, Bard dared to hope, but then the Lady gritted her teeth and twisted her wrist, sending his weapon flying. In a heartbeat, the tips of both her swords were pressed to his throat.

Bard gasped for air, still mesmerized by her gaze.

“Shall you beg for your life, Sir Bardroy?”

The steel blades bit into his skin, and a wet warmth trickled down his neck.

_This is how I die…_

Her eyes were two shades of green; an outer ring with the ethereal glow of fireflies dancing over the water, and an inner, darker circle reminiscent of the mysterious forest that surrounded them.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad way to go. His soul would begin its journey to the Isles of the Blessed with the memory of something beautiful.

If only he’d been a better knight. One who could have helped bring the young prince victory. A man worthy of wielding Regere.

“Fair’s fair, my Lady,” he said hoarsely. “Jus’ try an’ make it a good, clean cut. All wounds in front, so anyone who finds my body’ll know I didn’t run from my fate like a coward.”

The Lady laughed in delight.

“You are a _dear_ , Sir Bardroy!”

She stepped back, and the painful pressure against his throat was gone.

Bard blinked and shook his head, trying to make sense of what was happening. “Wait…I don’t understand, my lady. I _lost_. Aren’t yer goin’ to…y’know…”

“Transform you into a fish doomed to swim circles in the lake for all eternity? Fie! I’m a lady, Sir Bardroy, not a monster. Besides, I must confess I played a little trick on you. It was never about _winning_ the fight; no mortal man can prevail against me. Rather, it was _how_ you fought. And the battle didn’t start when you gave me this lovely rose.” She reached up to touch the flower in her hair.

“You resisted the lake’s pull when you first arrived, which suggests you have a strong will and are not easily swayed from your purpose.”

Bard awkwardly rubbed his shoulder. “Really, it was my horse Strider that saved me, my Lady. I was all set to wade in like an idiot, but she snapped me out of it.”

“But you were the one determined to make it back to shore,” the Smith insisted. “You fought against the memory charm this morning, too.”

“The blazes—so _that_ was why I had such a damned hard time remembering the poem!” Bard exclaimed, bristling in indignation. “That was a right underhanded, even fer a faerie.”

The Lady blithely twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “Oh my sweet, fairness isn’t our specialty. However, if a person persists for long enough in their attempts to remember, the spell will be broken—as was the case for you. During the fight itself, you showed honor through your actions rather than pretty words. In the past, men have leapt at the chance to subdue a defenseless woman; I seemed like easy prey. I proved them wrong, of course.” A flash of those blindingly white teeth, and a shiver ran down Bard’s spine. “But you objected to what appeared to be an unfair match. When I drew my swords, you didn’t back down, and you refused to surrender no matter how desperate you grew. In defeat, you faced your imminent demise with dignity, as a true knight should.”

The Lady continued, “Most important were you motives for seeking my sword. Most men who come to me dream only of their own glory. You, on the other hand, requested it for another’s sake, without a thought for personal gain or renown. Sir Bardroy, you have proven yourself to be a man worthy of my respect…and a knight fit to carry my Regere.”

Her eyes glowed warmly with approval, and Bard shuffled his feet. He wasn’t that special. Was he? He’d just done what was expected of any knight on a quest for his ruler.

The Lady sheathed her swords, tucked them away in her sleeves, and took Bard by the hand. A _faerie_ held his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. The same elation buoyed his spirits as when he’d caught a stag after a long, grueling hunt, or protected the young prince against yet another ambush from their enemies.

She led him to the lake’s edge, halting when the water lapped against their feet.

And there it was, washed up on the shore: Regere. A large sapphire gleamed in its hilt, and a complex pattern of roses and brambles ran along the silvery sheath.

“The lake gives what is rightfully yours, Sir Bardroy.”

Bard hesitated. Did his rough, callused hands in their battered armor have any business touching the sword of legend?

“Don’t be shy, man.” The Lady’s fingers squeezed his before she released him, and Bard slowly knelt to pick it up. The sword hummed with energy when he gripped the hilt, as if it was _alive_. Looking back at him with a bright, sharp cheerfulness that could turn deadly if need be—like the Lady who made it.

“Don’t be alarmed, love,” she said, seeming to divine his thoughts. “All swords have souls, you know. Regere’s just a little more…aware. She knows who her master is.”

Bard reverently drew the blade and swung it, testing the heft and balance. He might be imagining it, but did the sword _sing_ as it (she?) cut through the air?

“In that case, I look forward t’ workin’ with yer, Miss Regere,” he addressed the sword. An answering hum emanated from the weapon, which he gently slid back into its scabbard.

“On behalf of the young prince…and myself…thank you, Lady of the Lake,” he said, turning and bowing to the Smith.

She grabbed Bard by the forearms and pulled him upright.

“None of that, now. Visitors know me as the Lady or the Smith, but my friends call me Grelle.”

Grelle. A name as lovely and lustrous as a polished gemstone.

“Only if you stop calling me Sir Bardroy. _My_ friends jus’ call me Bard.”

“Very well…Bard.” The sound of his name on her lips was sweet like honey, but the kiss she gave him was sweeter than the rose. In the nights to come, he would look up at the stars and remember that kiss: The fine-boned hands cradling his face, the wind blowing her scarlet locks around him like a veil, an elusive scent of water lilies.

The color was high in Grelle’s cheeks when she broke contact, and she brought her fingertips to her mouth as if trying to preserve the memory, like a pressed flower.

“You must not linger here,” she told him quietly. “Your prince and people have need of you.”

“Will I ever see yer again?” he asked impulsively.

Mischief twinkled in her eyes. “Who can say? But know this—if there comes a time when Regere herself cannot save you, and you lie wounded on the brink of death, have your companions bring you here. For I am far more than a simple blacksmith.”

Brink of death? Damn, that didn’t sound promising. Still, it wasn’t often you met a woman like Grelle, and Bard hoped that their paths would cross again.

An impatient whinny rang out. Strider cantered towards them, looking peeved at the delay.

He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Duty calls. Goodbye…Grelle.”

She beamed, and the knight nearly dropped his sword. Regere _looked_ at him with what he could have sworn was amusement.

Bard offered Grelle a parting bow, then went forward to meet his fate.

* * *

Grelle stood on the edge of the shore long after Bard rode off into the distance, recalling how his clear blue eyes shone when he turned to wave goodbye.

Prophecies _were_ notoriously unreliable, but there was another one surrounding Regere known only to her. It was foretold that, after the throne had been won, Regere’s master would be mortally wounded through pernicious chance. That he would be brought to the Lake for healing, and survive as Grelle had—by becoming one of the fey. And that he would live through the ensuing centuries by the Smith’s side.

She caressed the velvety rose petals that adorned her hair.

“You _shall_ see me again, Bard.”


End file.
